“You would slow down for me when we were on a track, see how I was doing, push me to run just a little faster. You’d do that every time. You could’ve stopped on day one. I yelled at you, called you the worst fucking names, and you just kept running beside me, ahead of me. Waiting for me to catch up to you. And guess what, I did.” His eyes redden. “You were patient with me. So this, right here”—he gestures between me and him—“is me being patient with you.”
